


Prisoner's Dilemma

by 37h4n0l



Category: B: The Beginning (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Frequent Chess Mentions, Game Theory References, Gore, M/M, Mutilation, Pre-Canon, Sex, Too much introspection, Violence, and minatsuki cuts up a lot of corpses in this, and theres a brief appearance of suit!laica which is my genius idea, as fluffy as they can get which isnt a lot, i cant even list everything thats in here, just take it, not all of these simultaneously jfc, theres mild kamuquinn if you squint, theres some mild fluff, they go out to eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 20:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14626518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: It's a game where players don't cooperate, even when it's mutually beneficial, due to the potential risk.





	Prisoner's Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> So the next fic theme is *spins roulette wheel* game theory, and *spins again* chess. I just try to fulfill my need to rant about things I like so I put it in fics, is all I do. There might be awful word repeats and typos in this one because I haven't reread it, but I guess I'll correct them later. Honestly, it's so fucking long I'm not even aware whether it makes coherent sense or not. I just like the longer oneshot format a lot...
> 
> It's also an aggregate of a bunch of my headcanons, among which: Minatsuki being really sadistic with dead bodies, suit!Laica, the fact that they play chess, Minatsuki liking expensive shit, Laica having to buy him said expensive shit (which is in absolutely no way connected to any specific kink even vaguely, don't look at me) and a lot of other things.

Minatsuki’s fingers circle around the small porcelain shape and place it barely a centimetre forward. 

 

“They’re so clean and well-kempt,” he observes, leaning forth and peering at his reflection on the polished surface, maybe as a diversion tactic, “not even a speck of dust.”

 

Laica tilts his head — he’s sloping back against his chair on the other side of the table with his hands interlocked behind his nape. Questioning. Just like most of Minatsuki’s talking, it feels like the phrase’s literal meaning doesn’t matter at all and there’s some metacommunicative intent. It’s tiring to figure out.

 

“I just don’t use them a lot” he ends up brushing it off, hunches forward a bit abruptly and steps out with the knight without reflecting. Maybe it’s too bold.

 

“As if they’re made of snow. It’s such a pure white.”

 

He breathes out his nose to signal to Minatsuki he should be making his move instead of blabbering poetically. Chess brings a strange, underlying impatience out of Laica; especially when it feels like the other person is wasting time instead of paying attention to the game. He’s almost sure Minatsuki doesn’t want to play with him for the sake of playing and it bothers him that he can’t figure out what else he’s getting out of it. He stares out the window in the late afternoon sunlight — one of the few windows the airship has — while the other finally decides to speak. 

 

“Does nobody play with you, usually?”

 

Laica perks up, annoyance growing at how irrelevant the question is.

 

“ _ I _ don’t play with  _ them _ .” He regrets saying that a mere moment later.

 

“So I’m special?” Minatsuki’s mouth slowly curls up in a smirk that tries to look flirty and sophisticated but is really just childishly happy.

 

“Maybe,” Laica says in resignation because well, perhaps he is, after all Minatsuki’s the only one he does this with and that does put him in a different position than anyone else; even if most of their games draw out so long they end up getting interrupted. Otherwise, their win-ratio is roughly equal — with none of them putting too much effort in.

 

The white bishop is pushed to the edge of the grid. He raises his brows but it’s not as visible with the shades in the way.

 

“I feel like saying it again and again,” Minatsuki mutters, partly just to himself, “your chess pieces are really pretty.”

 

Laica stares at him for a time lapse that would normally make another person uncomfortable.

 

“I suppose they are.”

 

*

 

He stabs into the corpse on the floor a few times. Just to make sure. There are a few whimpers coming from the man as he makes the last coughs and spits of his life, and then it abandons him amidst a series of convulsions. It’s getting late in the suburbs. The single street lamp illuminating them is flickering in intervals, although comparatively it might be less broken than the victim. At least the chance anyone will find them here is small, that’s what makes Laica keep himself from dragging Minatsuki away by force and instead resort to crossing his arms and looking on a few steps away. Small chance — because he finished the man off himself a bit earlier, quickly enough for there not to be too much noise. Also more cleanly than whatever is happening right now.

 

It’s almost as if Minatsuki holds him in resentment for keeping the kill for himself, trying to compensate with his little mutilation games. He’s not far off from Kamui, albeit with a degree of elegance to him. No, Laica backtracks on his thoughts, that’s not true because there’s a disaster of flesh tatters and blood everywhere, it’s soaking into the sleeves of Minatsuki’s shirt under the suit jacket. He’s cutting into the body for around the thirtieth time now. There’s a malicious smirk of satisfaction on his face and Laica can’t help but think it’s an ugly expression; nobody would look good with all that revolting garbage around them, delighting in it, not even with sharp features, pretty blue eyes and platinum blonde hair. The crickets hiding in the nearby family houses’ bushes don’t seem half as bothered; everything besides their immediate surroundings is unsettlingly peaceful. If Laica were anyone else, he’d feel bad about a body being reduced to ground meat in a neighbourhood like this.

 

“Minatsuki.”

 

The other turns around. His chest is heaving as he pulls the golden blade out slowly, he’s further gone mentally than he seemed.

 

“We need to go” Laica reiterates.

 

“You got to kill him,” Minatsuki raises his voice, “now I’m having fun.”

 

“You can have fun another time. We had a meeting scheduled for this evening.”

 

“Stellar that I’m the branch leader and I can reschedule them whenever I want, then, isn’t it?” He replies, lofty, turning his attention back to piecing up the remainders of their assassination target.

 

Laica stays silent for a few contemptuous seconds. He pulls his mobile phone out and keeps his voice calm.

 

“I’ll inform them.”

 

The call rings out; in the brief time with no response he regards Minatsuki’s frantic, overexcited thrusts of sword into the man’s abdomen, listens to how it squelches, there are vital organs being destroyed and bile bubbling up because it seems he got the gallbladder with precision. Pieces of human anatomy that don’t look as romantic as tacky horror movies make them out to be. Not as romantic as the blood. Laica, on a sidenote, doesn’t find much beauty in the latter either, but the lumps of liver sliding off Minatsuki’s blade are admittedly more distasteful. He hates watching because he doesn’t understand the meaning. He’s not sure Minatsuki does either, he looks like he just enjoys the act of rushing into these situations and being able to do whatever he wants.

 

It’s Takeru picking up in a short while. There’s a disapproving sigh coming from him, too, despite Laica trying his best to sum up the excuses diplomatically. He walks closer after ending the call; Minatsuki is still busy cutting off limbs and opening up skin by prying underneath like a plastic packaging.

 

“There isn’t much left of it,” Laica observes, “how much longer are you planning to continue?”

 

“I’m almost done” Minatsuki mutters, too concentrated on his endeavours. 

 

*

 

“Sometimes I feel like you disdain me.”

 

People don’t dare to look at them for too long as they stride down the sidewalk. Shops wouldn’t be open in Cremona’s centre past nine if it wasn’t for the summer season, but now there’s a crowd frolicking all around, especially kids — a group of which almost ends up bumping into Minatsuki. He lifts his arms in a gesture to avoid them, exposing the sleeves which have gone brownish from drying. They keep walking, one expensive boutique after another; Laica can see the other’s eyes wandering off towards them sometimes, mostly when there’s watches or suits in sight. Typical of him.

 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” His answer to the earlier comment is a little hasty, only having noticed how awkward the silence has gotten after it prolonged.

 

Minatsuki snorts as if to say he doesn’t believe him, slows down his steps while in front of a tie shop to inspect it a little longer.

 

“Should I change something about my behaviour?” Laica adds, trying to make the exchange productive.

 

“I was going to ask the same, actually. I—” the end of the sentence almost seems predictable as Minatsuki pauses in the middle of it, “don’t like that you dislike me.”

 

Of course, why would he have said what would have been expected. Minatsuki is the uncrowned king of unpredictability. Despite and because of this, he falls into his role so well in these moments; it almost makes Laica laugh with aloofness and sarcasm, he falls  _ exactly _ into his role when he’s glued to shop windows of luxury items like that, and when, instead of saying ‘I want you to like me,’ he says ‘I don’t like that you dislike me.’ Minatsuki being a narcissist of the brazen kind makes him want to take the whole thing less seriously, it makes him want to joke about it.

 

“I dislike when your pastimes put us in danger.”

 

And Minatsuki lets out a polite chuckle because he recognizes even this much snark is unusual coming from him. He seems so naïvely amused with his features going soft under the street’s dim lights, it’s in too stark a contrast with the maniacal twitches from his earlier murderous intent.

 

“Are you being humorous, Laica?”

 

“There was nothing untruthful about my statement.”

 

“I see,” he closes his eyes as he smiles again, calm, “how rare of you.”

 

Laica swallows tensely. That could be a sign it’s time to use his eye again; he decides not to comment and listen on to confirm whether Minatsuki’s mind has really managed to crawl out tooth and nail from the pit of oblivion he keeps pushing it back into.

 

“Oh, I’m—” He halts with semi-theatrical alarm. “I apologize, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean to call you dishonest. I was implying you’re a private person.”

 

It sounds like a load of bullshit; he’d be capable of throwing an underhanded insult out like that, but then again there’s no proof that he has. Laica has to settle with the discomfort of uncertainty where Minatsuki  _ might _ or  _ might not _ know something,  _ might  _ or  _ might not _ look down on him, and he’ll never know which. One thing’s for sure, he distracts himself easily. Out of all the places they passed by while returning to the Moby Dick’s hangar, the one he’s the most drawn to is a ridiculously costly restaurant with a few couples — both romantic and business partners — sitting at the outside tables and conversing at an obnoxious volume. There’s a faint smell of food in the air and Minatsuki stops to let the waiter rush to take an order before him.

 

“We should go out to eat” he turns to Laica as if that change in tone were at all natural.

 

“You’re covered in blood.” A nod towards his wrists.

 

“You should also buy me a new shirt.”

 

Laica sighs and he knows he can allow himself to because this is Minatsuki’s sense of humour and he’s expected to react like this. His way of talking, his mannerisms, his interactions with him — they’re all calculated to make him see Laica in a certain way and not notice the workings behind the scenes. It’s a deliberately chosen persona, the trustworthy and protective one. Mysterious, just enough to make one drop their suspicions of him on the basis that no, it would be too obvious if he had secrets so he probably doesn’t, or at least they’re different than the ones he actually has. Minatsuki looks like he’s not noticing any of it; someone so preoccupied with trivial things like food and dates definitely doesn’t know that something’s off. Laica’s mind is stuck on the word ‘date’ for a moment, rolling it on his tongue as if to taste it, almost pronouncing it out loud. One woman sitting with her fiancé laughs particularly loud, wine almost spilling from the glass she’s holding. The man in front of her is smiling too, they both look like they’re not thinking too hard about anything. Are these the implications, a scene like this one? For them, it’s outlandish, only Minatsuki is oblivious as to how much so.

 

“It really is too late.”

 

He seems to be inspecting his wristwatch — with a few stains of blood on it — the moment Laica looks up, and almost seems sad about his own ascertainment. They continue heading back unanimously, leaving the more illuminated part of the street only to enter a darker one. Minatsuki is, again, the first one to speak after entire minutes of silence, when they’re just a few intersections away from the hangar.

 

“But maybe it isn’t too late to play chess, is it?”

 

Laica lets out a hum equating to a nod.

 

*

 

Minatsuki has a certain level of investment in their matches. He tends to get frustrated when his chances of winning hit a low, never losing his composure but talking less and concentrating more around halfway through the game. He reorders the taken-out pieces by the board nervously, waiting for his turn, chews on his lower lip; Laica notices it gets chapped from the habit at times. The black rook moves along a row, setting a blatant trap for the enemy queen along with the bishop. There’s a silent curse resonating in the barely furnished community room of the airship.

 

“I’ve done it this time, haven’t I?” He tries to play off his imminent defeat.

 

“You’re almost certain to lose in about five turns,” Laica comments with a poker face, “want to continue?”

 

“ _ Almost _ certain” Minatsuki smirks.

 

A bit later he gets checkmated anyway and slouches back with a groan, disappointed with himself. The other puts the pieces back into the case one by one, meticulously. He’s never cared about these outcomes, it’s more interesting to watch how important they are to Minatsuki and trying to guess why. Maybe fluctuating dopamine gets one fixated on reward like that.

 

“If I can add just one thing,” he says without thinking as he closes the box, “I know why you lose when you do.”

 

“I don’t lose more than you, but let’s hear it.”

 

Laica looks him in the eye even though he probably can’t tell that he is.

 

“You’re impulsive and you rush into action. You sacrifice too many pieces in your maneuvers and find yourself without enough of them when you’d have a plan to execute.”

 

“What am I supposed to do, Laica?” Minatsuki snorts, indignated. “Coddle my pawns and keep them safe?”

 

“They do come handy if you need a spare queen.”

 

He doesn’t have a rebuttal so he relaxes into the armchair further, playing with the front strands of his hair in a moment of contemplation. Laica moves to stand up but stops at a sudden remark.

 

“I know why you lose when you do, too.”

 

He balances his chin on one hand, silently showing Minatsuki that he’s listening.

 

“Sometimes it’s like you don’t care about that king. Like you don’t even mind if it’s taken out.”

 

Laica raises an eyebrow but he can feel his heartbeat picking up. He  _ knows _ , he definitely sounds like he does now. He’s on the verge of reaching for his sunglasses to remove them and blinks a few time with his right eye to have it ready to use.

 

“I know it’s a vague critique. Maybe it’s just my impression.” Minatsuki does his characteristic hint of a snicker and it makes Laica reconsider and leave his hand where it is. “I have no room to talk either way, I lost after all.”

 

“I’ll take the advice.”

 

Minatsuki looks at him softly then, incredibly softly, probably because it reassures him when the only subordinate he has any semblance of trust for acts like his usual self, quiet and compliant. It makes it easier for him to believe in that encyclopedia’s worth of lies. His expression perturbs for a second then, there are words that want to bubble out of him but his mouth just gapes instead — he’s stopped himself. Who knows why. Whatever it is he wants to say, it surely isn’t quiet and polite, that’s all fake between them. Their tact is fake.

 

Laica stares at him as he gives a cordial goodnight greeting, gets up and goes to bed, how he rubs the sore muscles of his back on the way and a few strands resting on his shoulder slip down. 

 

*

 

Despite his earlier dismissals of the situation, assuming it wouldn’t become more tense, it does. It’s not only the two of them turning more quiet except the one or two passive-aggressive jabs at each other; the whole special branch seems more irritated, as if everyone’s out to pick a fight but nobody can find an excuse. Yuna seems to emanate even more hostility than before, Quinn acquired a new habit of playing darts (way too dangerous to be done indoors but they don’t spend their time arguing with him), the twins bicker with each other with increased frequency. Kamui — he’s his usual self. Laica is often sat in a corner, doing nothing but quietly observing them, who could need the golden fluid in that moment. It’s like a game of wack-a-mole for him, running up and down among them and trying to detect the symptoms. They’re stressful days and they don’t even have much to do; they cashed in a lot on their latest missions and Koku hasn’t acted up for weeks, which maybe makes things even worse with none of the bunch knowing what to do with the tension. 

 

Laica has done his best to avoid Minatsuki. He can’t get too focused on him, otherwise the others might do something stupid, or maybe that’s his personal excuse for not wanting to confront him. They haven’t sat down at the chess board since the evening they went out. He knows full well — that Minatsuki wants to keep talking about the criticism aimed at him, pushing and pushing until Laica opens up about it more. He doesn’t,  _ cannot _ know that there’s no way for that to happen, he interprets their relationship so ingenuously it’s almost moving. It makes Laica feel something that grossly approximates sympathy. Why he insists so much is beyond him — and his fits of anger, occurring more and more often, don’t make him easier to read. 

 

“You sure drink a lot” Kamui comments while carving intricate shapes into the table with his knife, sitting at its other end.

 

Minatsuki looks up with a death glare, hand tightening around the glass. The other is doing it on purpose, he should know better, and yet he lets it get the best of him. Alcohol doesn’t help for sure.

 

“Not fair that you gobble up all the booze, eh, Minatsuki. The rest of us are working hard too, you know.”

 

“Kamui!” Quinn draws out the syllables from the other side of the room — next to where Laica is perched on a stool — as he flings an arrow.

 

Minatsuki is clearly angered, it shows in how his lips are pursed tight and how he tucks a strand behind his ear in too much haste. Laica notices all those small signs, and now he’s noticing that he notices. Unsure about the rest of them, but he would always be able to tell when Minatsuki is abstinent just from looking at him so damn much. He doesn’t need to think about his role in their story as the tragically oblivious puppet swinging towards its demise, it’s more instinctual than that. It’s his flashiness, he’s made purposely to attract attention and draw it away from the puppeteer who’s only admiring him because he’s too complacent about his own trick. 

 

“Really, I want a drink too—”

 

“Shut up.” It’s barely a mutter coming from Minatsuki, which gives Kamui a good excuse to completely ignore it.

 

“If I ask Laica to make me a Whisky on the Rocks will he do it, or is he only your personal servant?”

 

Minatsuki all but breathes out, starts ticking on the glass with the covered end of his nail as a compulsion, he’s almost at a breaking point.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Kamui, just leave it…” 

 

Quinn only sounds as calm as he does because he’s at an angle that doesn’t allow him to see Minatsuki’s face — or Laica’s, for that matter, who would find the way he’s been called a good reason for a beating, but his nerves are made of steel and Minatsuki’s aren’t more than a string of spiderweb. He stands up with a dramatic, dull thump, slamming his hands on the table as he’s hunched over the whisky, hair dangerously close to dipping into it. His breathing is audible in the whole room. Kamui doesn’t do more than raising a brow as a challenge (a mistake) and Quinn only turns around now. 

 

“Don’t play with my patience” Minatsuki says in the end, tone admirably contained considering his state of mind.

 

“Are you getting offended on his behalf?”

 

Laica panics a little when everything seems to get into motion simultaneously; Minatsuki takes a step to circle the table, towards Kamui, while Quinn makes a move to approach them too.

 

“We’re all on edge from boredom,” he interrupts, the other three freezing and settling down almost magically in a few seconds, it seems his words still have some magnetism, “if any of you feel the need for more gold solution, informing me about it is enough. I will provide more within a reasonable limit.”

 

“So you  _ can _ be pushed around after all.” Kamui is amused with his own verbal nudges.

 

“Supplying the drug is my task in this organization.”

 

“Laica,” Minatsuki says then, suddenly, “you don’t need to bring him his doses anymore. He can find them for himself. That’s an order.”

 

Everyone in the room seems equally bewildered; there’s a tinge of anger in Kamui’s expression while Quinn is simply very perplexed, bringing the darts-throwing to an end definitively for today. They don’t know with how well he hides it, but it makes Laica wonder too. It’s evident now, there’s been something off about Minatsuki for the past days, and this overreaction is just one instance among many.  _ Something off _ , and it’s in relation to Laica, all that forced, polite silence. Like a silly interpersonal game of putting distance between them: clearly wanting to talk to Laica but never going through with it, their time spent together progressively approaching zero. It seems Minatsuki convinced himself he dislikes him and decided to pull back — not that he could be neatly proven wrong on it either. Does Laica  _ not _ dislike him? It seems like a meaningless dichotomy when it’s about them. Quinn cuts his musings in half.

 

“He’ll… die, you know that, right?” Concern looks so odd on reggies. 

 

And, to their disbelief, Minatsuki actually shrugs his shoulders at that.

 

Kamui emits something like a feral growl and Quinn has to hold him back and yell at him so he doesn’t hit any part of the other he can reach; Laica pays little attention to the scene, it plays before him like a movie kept at low volume, and his focus on the particulars that annoy him scream over it incessantly. That Minatsuki thinks this is a game, that any of them can be thrown away at any moment, that he doesn’t care about death to any extent and that he thinks he’s the only player. He’s flooded with strong foreboding regarding this attitude and the future of their organization.

 

“As I said,” he raises his voice just enough for them to hear him from the back and stop, repeats word for word, “supplying the drug is my task in this organization so I will continue to do so.”

 

Laica seriously risks having his glasses punched off of him in that moment. It’s a good thing his combat skills are better than Minatsuki’s so he can avoid the fists thrown at him — he even has enough time between them to contemplate how it’s  _ just _ hands and not the golden blade, the fierceness in those moves is deceptive. He’s not really trying to hurt him, it’s a way to vent anger. Minatsuki looks so enraged and desperate even from a slight hint of being betrayed, it makes one wonder how he would react to the full truth. He swings at Laica, tries to get his stomach and fails; the other two watch silently as the hits are neutralized one by one. Laica finally manages to grab both his wrists soon, face not even twitching as Minatsuki pants and grits his teeth like an animal. It’s one of his ugly moments.

 

It surprises the both of them how he topples precisely then, the almost painful hold on his arms turning into a source of support inadvertently. His muscles twitch and curl in a way that clearly demonstrates pain even if he doesn’t have it in him to make a sound. It makes sense, it’s been a while since he took the drug and he’s added physical and nervous strain plus alcohol on top of the cravings. He doesn’t look at Laica — he can’t even focus enough. The latter shakes his head in amazement at just how much lack of consideration one can have towards anything and everything. 

 

*

 

Minatsuki doesn’t wake up until the next morning. His loss of consciousness seems to have blended into sleep; it worried Laica at first, because he looked as close to being dead as a person could while still being alive. The withdrawal symptoms haven’t been this bad before.

 

The first thing Laica thinks, when he’s shaken up from his half-dozing on the chair beside the bed by Minatsuki opening his eyes slowly, is that everything about him is so  _ light _ . His blue irises, his hair flowing in all directions on the pillow, his pale skin; they have an almost surreal fairness to them that make him fit right in with the sober bedsheets. Him lying in the bed with just a shirt on is like a composition of various shades of white if one doesn’t count the face mark. If only his appearance had anything to do with his personality, if only he could always be as peaceful as he is now. He ruins the image a moment later by lifting his hand, because it’s still the sleeve that has been drenched in blood at least halfway and the dark stain is obnoxious against the softness of the colour scheme. Maybe Laica should have bought him a new shirt after all.

 

“Did you carry me to my room?” Minatsuki’s voice cracks from having just slept.

 

“I did. Yesterday afternoon.”

 

“Out of obligation?” A smirk. It’s malicious, it’s so malicious underneath.

 

“Everyone else present was too angry with you.” It’s the most polite replacement for a ‘yes’ Laica can come up with.

 

“I hope it's not too straining for you to look after me.” Minatsuki’s sarcasm is such a subtle venom it takes attention to even spot.

 

“I pulled an all-nighter.” 

 

“You shouldn’t have, really.” 

 

Victim mentality now, is it, Minatsuki; Laica asks himself, sealing his own lips forcefully so he can’t say it out loud. Carnage first and then this. Bits of good mood interspersed, completely disjointed states of mind impossible to follow. He’s becoming a faulty machine running the wrong software for its structure and glitching with no cause or intention. And he manages to look innocent on that bed all the while, face so relaxed and hair so  _ odiously _ blonde Laica gets a puerile urge to yank it.

 

“You don’t have to go through the trouble since it clearly bothers you.” It’s so irritating, too, that he tries to look like he’s at peace with it. Like anyone would believe that.

 

“Stop being ridiculous.” It sounds more stern than intended.

 

“Why, I’m alright on my own.”

 

Laica jumps up from the chair abruptly, deciding that the argument has crossed his limit. There’s a few rays of faint sunlight seeping in through the small window towards an unaffected Minatsuki, making the atmosphere more soothing than it’s supposed to be.

 

“You passed out. This is more important than your personal issues with me.”

 

“My issues?” Minatsuki raises his brows. “I’m not sure what you mean. Are you in your rebellious phase, Laica?”

 

That does it for him and he launches himself at the other, making him yelp in surprise, grabbing him by the neck as his head knocks against the headboard loud enough to sound painful. He’s a breath away from his face, panting, unsure how to put the sheer contempt into words, because that’s what he feels towards him right now. For being so bad at telling how far one can take a game and not quitting even when it puts him in danger — Laica can’t allow that because Minatsuki is  _ his _ instrument and by ruining himself he’s ruining something that’s  _ his _ . He’s kneeling above him over the bedsheets, gloves squeezing around his throat with small cracking sounds. 

 

Minatsuki’s eyes, which can’t look directly into his through the shades, are so unsettlingly serene, it must be the golden fluid he was given a few hours ago; or the fact that he  _ knows _ he’s safe. It feels like a challenge. The two of them can’t have an all-out physical altercation because Laica  _ can’t _ let him get hurt and he  _ doesn’t want to _ hurt Laica in return. Maybe,  _ maybe _ it’s a form of affection, improbable but it would click with how relaxedly he’s looking at him right now, so close to being choked to death in a drowsy, sunlit bedroom. The consideration makes Laica recoil.

 

“I apologize. I have been impulsive lately. It won’t happen again.” His tone goes back to reserved in the course of a few seconds despite the rage still filtering through.

 

Minatsuki looks at him suspiciously; it bugs Laica so he turns to the other side, stepping away from the bed, maybe not afraid but still agitated. 

 

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be taking the fluid too?” The other asks in a contemplative tone, as if examining a child. “You don’t look that young to me.”

 

Laica should reply something like ‘I will consider,’ but something prods right at his ego in the implication of him being like  _ them _ , so much so that it blocks the air in his throat and he ends up not replying at all.

 

“Laica,” Minatsuki speaks again, a bit amused, “are you even a reggie?”

 

And he doesn’t say anything then either.

 

*

 

“Why do you always play as black?”

 

He places the bishop two cells away diagonally — the movement is so brusque the rest of the pieces trembles, the white king almost tumbling over on the other side. As if they’re on good enough terms to chit-chat like that; then again, they’re having a match.

 

“I guess I just like black.” Laica sighs. “As a colour.”   
  


“I find the white ones prettier.”

 

He looks at Minatsuki’s side of the board, up at him, then at the board again.

 

“De gustibus” he mutters under his breath.

 

It is, in fact, the only conversation between them during the game. One could think, gullibly, that they’ve reconciled, but if this had to be compared to something, it’d be the showdown they’ll never be able to have. Laica has never concentrated so much. He calculates forward, watches anxiously which piece Minatsuki’s gloved fingers hover over, tries to deduce the next move from how frequently he bites his lip. It feels odd to be dedicated to this.

 

It’s not one game they’re playing, it’s two. There’s the bifurcating routes of possible outcomes for chess moves, something entirely trivial and at this point effortless for Laica (they used to play sometimes with Gilbert, he picked up quite a bit,) and then there’s Minatsuki’s cryptic expression and behaviour, there’s the little indirect pushes at each other accumulating in the past few days. They run funnily parallel to each other. The two participants are equally on the defensive, half the pawns still in play, and both know that making a more daring move could ruin them if the other keeps it safe and wastes less pieces. Minatsuki moves the rightmost pawn by a single square, an irrelevant decision on the short term.

 

Why is he not doing anything? He’s usually the reckless one in chess — and otherwise. It makes Laica want to flip the board, or maybe the entire table, make the daring move himself if only he wasn’t looking out for his own benefits or potential losses. What would be the daring move here, moving the knight out of the way? Sacrificing the queen to take out the other one? Leaping at Minatsuki and actually strangling him this time? Getting up and leaving? If Laica wanted to go all the way, he’d tell him his whole life and identity are fake, that there’s nothing to him beyond what was artificially constructed; he’d watch how he’d react to that, how wide his eyes would go. How he would live after it, if he did. 

 

He watches Minatsuki closely after every move from then on and stops caring about his train of thought or chess or whatever else, because the other game becomes more important. It only occurs to Laica now, but he’s very beautiful, which so far was a statement always followed by  _ but _ s — something deprecative about his temperament, instability or habits — and only now exists as autonomous. Maybe it’s the dim lighting, in contrast with the one in his bedroom, that doesn’t let him discern Minatsuki’s expression enough to figure out he’s mocking him or looking down on him. Or it’s his unusual calm. His lashes cast downwards as he shows an abnormal amount of self-control, the thought he puts into picking up the chess pieces; Laica finds himself only continuing to play to see Minatsuki make the next move and how the bad inner lighting shines on his glove, slender fingers underneath it, as he lifts his hand. All of this isn’t in conflict with his willingness to murder him and, better yet, being on the verge of it. Laica wants to kill him even more if anything —  _ because _ of the fact that, at one point, he started thinking of him as too important to kill.

 

Minatsuki reaches out with his left and Laica’s breath hitches. For a few brief moments it seems like that hand is directed at the middle of his forehead, and he could take his sunglasses and remove them easily; maybe then Laica would activate his eye out of panic and he’d know everything, maybe he deserves to know. Maybe he already knows — he could summon the lohengrin and have it pierce straight through Laica’s head. The latter stares, quietly, waiting for the daring move on the other end that might be the last thing he sees in his life. 

 

But Minatsuki simply takes a white pawn and steps in the row directly before him. 

 

It doesn’t take long for Laica to lose and it’s not what he hates the most about the situation, not even that it happened because he didn’t pay attention, but how Minatsuki smiles at him all throughout the last turns, both triumphant and forgiving, an expression that nauseates him. There could be a different reason why Laica feels sick, on second thought, because Minatsuki’s lips look anything but repulsive in that precise moment, covered in small flakes of skin from too much biting but still soft. He opens his mouth to speak just as the other is fixated on it.

 

“Are you going to blame me for following your tips?”

 

Laica swallows, because one of the games hasn’t ended yet.

 

“I’m not. It was engaging.”

 

What’s the daring move? What is it?

 

“I wouldn’t say, you seemed quite out of shape in the second half.” Minatsuki retorts, probably knowing how narrow Laica’s pupils are right now under the shades like the snake he is. “Similar to how you’ve been acting with me lately. It’s almost like you’re keeping secrets from me.”

 

And that’s the bait, shameless and deliberate.

 

*

 

Laica tries to shake off a lump of mass from his foot as he stumbles into it; it’s hard not to when he’s walking around a house with the lights out and all the furniture broken and thrown around in disarray. He shivers from disgust instinctually as it sloshes off him with his steady movements — the so-called ‘mass’ is some unidentified part of a dead body, he knows because he can smell it despite having no visual input, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. He curses under his breath as he steps into the next room; there’s a bit of moonlight there so at least he can watch his steps. It delineates the corpses lying around fairly well. There’s barely phone signal and any tracking device is useless, so all he can rely on is the vague sounds coming from another part of the house. It’s like a very macabre and less exciting version of a stupid haunted house movie.

 

“Minatsuki” he calls out halfheartedly. 

 

He has to go through a few more rooms, step on a few more people to arrive. It’s tedious just to think about how long he’s gonna have to wash his clothes once this is over; hopefully it won’t take much longer. Laica finds Minatsuki eventually — he’s standing in front of a window, glaring at the moon, not even bothering to disassemble the goddamn lohengrin as the tiny droplets of blood hit the floor at a regular rhythm. He probably thinks it’s an impactful scene but it just comes off as histrionic. 

 

“Strange, isn’t it?” Minatsuki, outwardly mellow, turns around just a little. “I killed them all. I wasn’t even aware of it.”

 

Laica merely steps closer instead of replying. There’s no good answer anyway, starting a discourse about his moods with him is useless. 

 

“It’s not strange,” he’s suddenly overcome by something and kicks half an abdomen out of his way with violence, like a soccer ball, wanting  _ so badly _ to follow up with ‘it’s just stupid,’ “have you taken the drug?”

 

“I have, Laica,” Minatsuki says like he’s schooling him, “I’m not an innocent lamb whenever I’m not going crazy.”

 

“I know.”

 

He looks immovable, standing in the same spot, but at least his left hand shapes back slowly before he can hide it in his pocket like the other one. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. He’s engulfed in a blue glow, it brings out how tall and thin he is. Minatsuki is very elegant even with his sick mind, not admitting it is just dishonest. Laica is caught off guard by his voice.

 

“Why do you always come to these places to pick me up anyway?” He then continues because he gets no response. “They’re  _ my _ tasks, I can handle going back on my own.”

 

“Who knows what you might do.”

 

“I’m an  _ adult _ .” 

 

_ Not since long and you fail to act like it too often _ , Laica wants to say. 

 

Minatsuki finally decides to move and they try to find their way out of the house together in silence; the bodies aren’t that bothersome anymore somehow, like it’s possible to get used to them after a while. It takes at least ten minutes to find the entrance. The pieced-up and tilted cupboards often have sword slashes on them, marks of an impulsively done battle. 

 

“You only had to kill  _ one _ ” Laica comments quietly as they’re finally irradiated by the street lamps outside.

 

“Are you scolding me?” the other smirks, entertained. 

 

“It’s not a game.” It’s just a sentence that slips out, but Minatsuki seems to find it even funnier. 

 

“What, human life? Is that what you’re saying?”

 

It’s followed by silence with their faint steps in the background, Laica grabs his phone and sends a message so the airship comes to get them. A disregard that could be easily taken as affirmative. 

 

“I guess we have an ideological difference” Minatsuki murmurs to himself. 

 

The worst thing is that Laica knows, just by taking a look at him, that their way of thinking is actually very similar.

 

*

 

“It’s almost like you’re keeping secrets from me.”

 

Minatsuki throws the sentence out, probably just to see if it sticks. He goes from victorious to disheartened so quickly it can’t be sane, there’s just no way. Laica wishes he could craft his own states of mind through words like that. He has other ways to do that, transplanted into his right eye socket, and they require no social skill whatsoever, unlike these ridiculous stratagems. But he can’t use the eye in this moment to stop his heart from wanting to break out of his chest from anxiety.

 

“I make many bad impressions on you” Laica says, taking one of the white pawns in his hand in an act of putting it away but stopping halfway through and holding onto it like a child who found a toy.

 

“They’re reasonable suspicions, I think, with how you’ve been lately. It’s not what I’m used to.”

 

They stare at each other in silence for at least one uncomfortable minute. Minatsuki’s chin is resting on the top of his hand, his smile is imbued with a mixture of disappointment and melancholy. His eyes are narrow as they take Laica apart like he sometimes does with dead bodies. The room they’re still sitting in is so dark now that it’s night outside as well, it’s noticeable from the lack of discernible details in objects and faces — even the chess board starts becoming a mesh of blacks and whites. Laica’s mouth moves on its own as his brain shuts off and deems the next sentence beneficial for alleviating the sense of dread in him.

 

“If I had secrets, would you really want to know them?”

 

“So I was right” Minatsuki flips a lock of hair behind his shoulder, almost gleeful, unable to control the shine of intrigue in his eyes.

 

“People hide things. It’s normal.” It’s only a faint hope for Laica to brush it off with that, but deep down he knows he’s already made one daring move and Minatsuki is like a vulture circling over him, an obstinate one at that.

 

“But you seem bothered by them.” The other looks at him from under his lashes and Laica could swear there’s something intentionally suggestive about it, or he’s reading too much into things. “Maybe you  _ want to _ tell me?”

 

He stands up from his chair at that, putting down the pawn and leaving it lying on its side, walks to the other side of the table with slow steps, only to look at a mildly surprised Minatsuki from above. He should’ve thought more about this because he’s not even sure what he’s going to do.

 

“Minatsuki,” he breathes out. 

 

A pause to linger on those blue eyes, so collected now. 

 

“ _ You’re nobody. I made you up. You’re not even Minatsuki, that’s my name. You’re someone I brainwashed so early you didn’t even have a personality yet. You’re nothing but a component in my plan, I’m going to watch you die sooner or later and then I’ll rule the world and probably won’t remember you. _ ”

 

And then Minatsuki sits there in shock until it settles in; Laica takes off his shades and shows him his eye, how it’s identical to Koku’s, and his response to it is lunging at him in despair and madness. They fight until one of them is dead.

 

It’s what happens in a parallel scenario — because Laica doesn’t say any of that.

 

He grabs Minatsuki by the chin almost patronizingly and kisses him with a lot of thoroughness and aggravation. He doesn’t think of anything in that moment other than how those lips taste exactly as good as he thought they would, not one worry about how — if it isn’t reciprocated — this move is going to ruin any trust between them and ruin Laica as well. That’s all meaningless because Minatsuki is kissing him back and grabbing onto his nape to pull him down with so much desperation it makes it look like he initiated it. It’s even bewildering for a moment, how much he seems to have  _ waited _ for this, a detail that suddenly doesn’t click. 

 

In the end, Minatsuki stands up with his arms on Laica’s shoulders wordlessly, and Laica just holds him for a while, trying to decipher why the other suddenly feels so hurt under his hands. The bulk of light blonde hair close to his face smells like blood and quality shampoo.

 

“I didn’t want you to go away” Minatsuki says suddenly, low and muffled against the purple waistcoat. “It felt like you were leaving me.”

 

Laica pulls away a little to lift a hand and cup his cheek to brush over it with his thumb, instantly wondering how he has enough tenderness left in him for this gesture, then being reminded of all the other times he used it. He would rather not remember its connotations, but he’s the one who has to. He’s the one who gets to keep the memories. Minatsuki’s lids lower, he seems way too soothed for himself; another arm is around his waist, loose.

 

“I don’t trust the others. I’m sure you know” he follows up.

 

“That’s a good trait. Don’t trust anyone.”

 

“I thought you hated my personality.” It’s his usual smirk again; Laica makes him back down against the table and bump into it lightly with the next kiss, reminding him to drop the pretentiousness.

 

“I do hate it when you fish for compliments.”

 

Minatsuki pants a little from the lack of air. His face is reddened in a way that looks unfamiliar on him, on his ruthless and cold exterior. 

 

“Then compliment me on your own” he murmurs and Laica can feel his temperature rising ever so slightly. “You can show me, too” he adds. 

 

The next kiss is softer, much more apologetic, might be a foreshadowing of how this tame affection won’t last for long which Laica knows full well as he hoists up Minatsuki to sit him on the table behind him. When they part, Minatsuki somehow looks simultaneously a bit embarrassed and proud like he won a bet, a knee on each side of the other. Him settling back further makes a black bishop roll away by a few centimetres. Laica decides to cut to the chase by loosening that obnoxious tie he’s wearing until it’s off, going straight for his neck with a graze of teeth while his hand searches under the suit jacket. Minatsuki seems to like it so much it’s almost perplexing; he sucks in a sharp breath when Laica finds the right spot somewhere next to his clavicle, intent on leaving a mark there to see how far he can push before getting him too indignated, and he suspects there’s no limit at all. He opens Minatsuki’s shirt buttons from the bottom up — some of them tear off from the rush — sparing a moment for how his narrow chest rises and falls.

 

“Wait,” Minatsuki says between two pants, leaving the other confused.

 

He reaches slowly to remove his hat and then his sunglasses with care, sating an age-old curiosity — Laica is calm now and his eyes hardly betray anything but having them exposed still feels sudden.

 

“Heterochromia?” Minatsuki smiles, reassuring. “Are you self-conscious about it?”

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

“You’re good-looking.” There’s a little jump in his voice in the middle of the sentence when Laica pushes him down, holding his torso with both hands, until he’s lying on his back. Minatsuki has to awkwardly sweep away some chess pieces from underneath himself, poking at his spinal column. He clutches the other’s right hand, pulling at the leather glove to get it off.

 

“Laica,” he mutters fondly, “touch me.”

 

And Laica obliges, still much gentler than he’d expect himself to be as he runs his fingertips down from Minatsuki’s neck to his chest, feeling how yearningly he leans into it, fascinated by the fact that this is what was underneath the surface. It feels strange, too, being wanted this much. Maybe it shouldn’t because it’s nothing beyond ordinary that someone so close to ‘Laica,’ in a rushed and hasty life like theirs, would want him, but nobody wants  _ Minatsuki _ and he just supposes he’ll have to settle with this. 

 

* 

 

It gets messier a few minutes later, when Minatsuki is already undressed, clinging onto Laica greedily and pulling him inside with a leg around his lower back. His hair is everywhere around him in pliable, shiny rivulets, all over the board with the small porcelain figures tangling into it. There are clothes thrown around in casual places, a glove — hard to tell whose — right beside his face, details neither of them concentrates on. Laica bends down to push his cock inside deeper, forcing a raw and undignified noise out of Minatsuki and feeling nails digging into his bare shoulderblade with too much pressure, as if he wants revenge for the discomfort. 

 

“Ah, Laica,” he sounds shaken up from arousal, “so good,—”

 

He’s shameless about it, so shameless it’s infuriating, and Laica’s thigh knocks against the table’s edge when he thrusts into Minatsuki’s ass next. He borders on wanting to tell him not to be so open and willing, that he picked one person to trust and it’s the wrong one — but there’s something within him that enjoys it enough to outbalance, enjoys that Minatsuki is malleable and will take whatever he gives him. Laica grabs his hips tighter and picks up his pace. He leans low and starts losing control of his movements; Minatsuki’s moans are half-contained like he’s trying to be refined even now, but he’s coming undone and bites into his shoulder,  _ hard _ , to muffle his own voice. Laica hisses — it hurts like hell — and definitively stops holding back in fucking him. 

 

“God…!” Minatsuki gulps back nearly a sob when the angle is right. “Harder!”

 

Laica takes a mental note that he’s unabashedly loud and talkative during sex. He runs a hand through Minatsuki’s hair, grabbing ahold of it while the table creaks under them rhythmically, at the risk of breaking from the force. It tilts a little and a few chess pieces fall onto the ground, resonating loudly against the metallic floor — one of them cracks from the sound of it, he can’t see which one, but he doesn’t care anyway. It makes him wonder what he’s even doing, what’s so tantalizing about Minatsuki sinking his teeth into his own lip and the way the blush on his skin is evident from it being light, his insides so warm and tight around Laica’s cock. Why is he doing something he wouldn’t do if it was for mere physical pleasure? Is he even following a strategy in this game?

 

It erodes him when Minatsuki mumbles something incoherent about love as Laica starts stroking him and brings him closer to his climax. It’s better if he doesn’t talk; he kisses him again, still buried deep, because more than the falsity of it all he can’t bear this openness towards him when he’s lying. Minatsuki is probably convinced they both took the risk and Laica might have been, too, but now he has to wonder because he still has him under his thumb and Minatsuki has no idea as he moans, gasps and curses when he topples over the edge. He also comes shortly and it feels too great for karma not to hit him back for it sometime later, yet at the moment his biggest punishment is the fingernails raking on his back — it will bruise, but so will Minatsuki’s hipbones that he’s clutching onto as he rides out his orgasm. 

 

Laica stares at the other’s disarranged posture for a few seconds and wishes he wasn’t suddenly so enamoured with the sight. With the few, disheveled locks of hair in his face and the other numerous ones around him like a halo, with the shine of sweat on his well-maintained skin, with his eyes still narrow and fixated on him. It hits him then, when he summarizes the situation in his head, how in love Minatsuki is with this fake persona, how absolutely struck and devoted. Laica realizes it hurts because it’s like watching him love someone else. It makes him wrap his arms around him tight and he can feel how delighted Minatsuki is, pressed against him, by the whole thing; but he’s being taken pity on, he’s the main character of a dramatic tragedy that he’s always wanted to be and he doesn’t even realize. 

 

Nearly half the chess pieces is on the ground, the game ended hours ago but Laica can’t bring himself to let go of Minatsuki, even if it feels like he’s already gambling on debt. 

 

*

 

The next evening Laica  _ still _ doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing, but he starts getting used to it.

 

He’s not sure he’s ever seen Minatsuki so lively, like he’s having a childish whim fulfilled as he rolls the wine around in the glass in a comically showy way, taking a sip of it, every movement in strict accordance with proper etiquette. It matches his shirt — it’s a festive one, of the same dark red as the beverage. It looks good enough on him along with his hair cascading down his shoulders, freshly washed, for Laica to have to acknowledge it; it gets on his nerves a little but this is the most relaxing thing he’s done in maybe weeks. The couple at the table behind them is getting drunker and louder, they distract him for only a second before he focuses on the other’s content face again.

 

“You didn’t tell me about your eyes in the end,” Minatsuki perks up spontaneously, “is that why you wear those?” He’s pointing at the sunglasses placed on the table between them — he nagged Laica until he took them off for the occasion. 

 

“I just prefer to.”

 

“Oh, are you going to be all shy again now?” He groans at the curtness of the reply. “You sure weren’t when you—”

 

“Minatsuki.”

 

There’s nobody who manages to look so in his element and out of place at the same time as he does in a restaurant. The waiter arrives soon and takes their order; Minatsuki, of course, orders the most expensive thing on the menu either whimsically or to deliberately piss him off. By how smug and confident he is when talking to the panicky boy who came to serve them, one wouldn’t think he isn’t the one paying and that Laica is inwardly waving Market Maker’s budget goodbye in the meantime. He picks an interesting-sounding dish at medium price somewhat randomly. 

 

“I really hope you’re not going to complain about money” Minatsuki comments when the waiter is gone, as if reading his mind.

 

Laica sighs silently, leaving it hanging with no response as he rubs his back. It’s also surreal to him that he was roped into wearing a suit somehow; the dress shirt on him is brand new with its collar still rigid, he would’ve preferred wearing something softer that doesn’t scrape against the plethora of scratches on the backside of his neck and shoulders.

 

“Relatively,” the other insists, “it’s much less than what we spend on Kamui’s lack of self-containment with the fluid.”

 

“You’re not wrong” Laica replies, staring off into the distance briefly. “And I’m not sure he can help it.”

 

“You’re so compassionate, Laica.” The corners of Minatsuki’s mouth curl up as he leans his chin against his palm with a bit of condescension. “It’s kind of adorable.”

 

He knows he should consider it a joke but it makes Laica’s stomach twist uncomfortably, the urge to contradict it is strong. In order to easen up, he pours himself more wine from the bottle in a much more impolite way than the other, filling the glass more than it formally should be and earning a furrowing of brows. 

 

“By the way—” he already feels the increased talkativeness after swallowing almost all its contents. He has to let out a few coughs, noticing Minatsuki’s attentive, bright blue eyes nonetheless. His voice is a bit sore when he continues.

 

“Did you know there’s no standard strategy for chess? No algorithm that produces an optimal route a priori.”

 

“In what sense?” Minatsuki asks, disregarding the strange switch in topics, probably just giddy that Laica is talking by his own volition.

 

“Each move has to be adapted to the other player’s previous one, it’s the only way to find the best one for the situation.”

 

“See, I’m always telling you. We need to improvise sometimes.”

 

They chat like that while eating and lose track of time, it’s already dark and the waiter comes by to light a candle at their table, adding the last touch of sappiness to the scene. Laica has a weird feeling all the while, as Minatsuki looks so self-satisfied finishing his exorbitantly-priced food, or when a hair of his accidentally gets too close to the flame and burns to crisp, making him panic; a feeling that pushes the sorrow into the back of his mind temporarily. Fun— This is  _ fun _ . It only puts him off that since Minatsuki was the only one who really made the daring move, he will be consumed by it, to Laica’s benefit nonetheless.  _ For _ Laica — and not  _ Minatsuki _ — whom he’s so coincidentally infatuated with, who goes to fancy restaurants, jokes around, plays chess and converses with him. 

 

It’s not something worth having a dilemma about. They’re players of a game, and within its context all of this is real, including ‘Laica’ and Minatsuki’s feelings for him. Or Laica’s feelings for Minatsuki. The latter weren’t planned, but maybe they’re the decision that leads to the best outcome now. 

 

Laica has a cigarette between his teeth as they walk away with unhurried steps; he rarely has time for one since it’s forbidden on the Moby Dick for fire hazard. Maybe coming here tonight was a good idea, could have been yet another rampage otherwise. He exhales the copious smoke that accumulated while he was distracted.

 

“Yesterday my other shirt was ruined, too” Minatsuki says, combing through the hair on his nape with feigned bitterness. “Thanks to you.”

 

“Alright,” Laica sighs, “I’ll buy you one, so you don’t need to keep saying it.”

 

“You’re too easy to manipulate” the other laughs, accidental irony heavy like a pile of bricks.

 

Before they walk into a shop, the cigarette butt disappears under Laica’s shoe and for a moment he feels lighthearted about the fact that Minatsuki is so stuck on frivolous things. It takes away from the seriousness of it, and maybe it’s how it’s supposed to be. They come out the door with a shirt and continue on with their insignificant,  _ fun _ activities, because it’s all a game that goes onward — and Laica thinks that maybe he can keep playing it for a little longer.

 

*

 

The Prisoner’s Dilemma is a non-zero-sum game where two players, without communicating, have to decide whether to cooperate with each other or refuse to do so. Simultaneously choosing to cooperate presents a benefit for both players; however, one player refusing while the other cooperates results in greater benefit for the former and devastating loss for the latter. A refusal on both sides causes moderate damage. If calculated according to probability theory, it results that non-cooperation is still the best strategy despite cooperation being in both players’ interest.

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously I'm not even good at chess, I just know that being constantly on the offensive gets your ass beaten so excuse my lack of professionalism regarding the game, I can't become an expert on everything to write fics, can I.


End file.
